


Designs and Alterations

by AuroraNova, ConceptaDecency



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian Culture, Cardassian flirting, Cultural Differences, Fine Tailoring, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConceptaDecency/pseuds/ConceptaDecency
Summary: Garak doesn’t give out coupons to just anybody. Actually, he only gives them out to one special person. And if his motivations extend beyond the much-needed tailoring, Doctor Bashir hasn't caught on yet. Will he ever?
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 288
Kudos: 489





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, Doctor,” said Garak casually, as though he had not been waiting for the perfect opportunity to withdraw a small slip of paper from his pocket, “before you return to your research, allow me to give you this.”

“Is it coupon time again?” asked Bashir.

“Perhaps you’ll use this one. You might be surprised what taking your uniform waists in a centimeter or two would do.” Truly, the wretched Starfleet uniforms didn’t give Garak much with which to work, but he knew he could at least make some improvements to Bashir’s, to say nothing of the doctor’s unfortunately short holosuite costume trousers (replicated, and poorly at that). 

“It’s an elastic waist, Garak.” Bashir glanced down at his own waist, as if it might have changed since the last time he looked. “The whole point is that it doesn’t need to be taken in.”

“I beg to differ.” 

He sometimes wondered if Bashir focused so much on his former career with the Obsidian Order that he failed to realize Garak was, in the present, very much qualified to offer sartorial advice. The shop wasn’t some elaborate cover story, despite what Garak would have liked on some days. (Some days he found exile less troublesome. They tended to be the days he met with Bashir for lunch or, lately, some ridiculous holosuite ‘spy’ adventure.) The theory was his best explanation for Bashir’s stubborn disinterest in having his clothing altered. 

Were the doctor Cardassian, this refusal to follow Garak’s sensible professional advice might have been a point of amorous debate, but Garak doubted this was the case, sadly. Or perhaps fortuitously, if he listened to Tain’s voice in his head. 

“Well, thank you,” said Bashir, pocketing the coupon he probably wouldn’t use. “Do you really find these are good for business?”

“Yes,” lied Garak. “People like saving money.”

Bashir wouldn’t know. As a Starfleet officer, he didn’t have to worry about anything the Federation broadly classed as ‘necessary.’ He even got four free hours of holosuite time a month as a recreation allowance, as if his stipend wasn’t already spent almost entirely at Quark’s, and for all Garak knew there was some procedure in place whereby Bashir could ask Starfleet to pay his uniform alteration bills. The Federation was nothing if not devoted to its ideals. 

The happy result of Bashir’s commercial ignorance, for Garak, was that the doctor never questioned the subject of coupons very closely. He did not, for example, notice that no one else ever seemed to possess one.

“Some people also like clothing which fits them properly,” he added. “You might try it sometime, Doctor.”

“My uniforms fit just fine.”

That was debatable. Admittedly, compared to Bashir’s holosuite costumes, his uniforms were indeed not such a dire problem. There was only so well-dressed a Starfleet officer could look on duty, anyway. The organization missed many chances for subtle psychological signalling through attire. The Federation was careless like that. 

“There’s more to a wardrobe than your official garments. I’ve seen your holosuite costumes, Doctor, and they leave much to be desired.” 

“You just don’t like suits because you think wearing a tie is asking to be strangled.”

It was exactly such an invitation, but that was beside the point. “I’m talking about your trousers, Doctor. And some of the sleeves. Too short by a noticeable length.”

“They’re costumes,” said Bashir, as though that made a difference. “They don’t need to be the height of fashion.”

“Commander Dax makes sure hers fit.”

“Jadzia likes the dressing up aspect of holosuites more than I do.”

“Clearly.”

“Thank you for the coupon,” Bashir said, no doubt solely to be polite. He stood up and grabbed his padd. “I have to get back to the infirmary, but I’ll be very interested to know what you think of _The Scarlet Letter_.”

“It can’t be worse than your last selection.” If that book was anything to go by, humans spent a great deal of time feeling sorry for themselves after the Earth-Romulan War. Garak suspected with further reading the pattern might extend to wars in general.

“One of these days I’ll find a book you like,” said Bashir. 

“I look forward to that day.” Well. He would still have to find some grounds for argument all the same, wouldn’t he? He relished their weekly literary debates. Even if the doctor didn’t recognise the significance they had for Garak, they provided a much-needed spark of frisson to his otherwise cold, dreary existence. 

“Have a good afternoon, Garak.”

“And you, Doctor.”

Garak’s afternoons rarely rose to the level of good. For business, yes; in fact he’d enjoyed a profitable morning that very day. He’d discovered three years earlier that accepting Gamma Quadrant liquors in trade, when he received customers from the other side of the wormhole, was always a good investment. The exotic liquor market was lucrative, and Garak’s customers that morning had no doubt covered at least two months’ rent for both his quarters and shop.

Business might be good. That didn’t provide companionship, conversation, or any other social niceties so crucial to Cardassian contentment. Indeed, it was the lack of those which had driven Garak to invent coupons in the first place.

It had all started when he was suffering withdrawal from his cranial implant, a detail to which Garak attributed the sentimentality of his plan. He had designed a coupon and presented it to Bashir, claiming it was a new marketing strategy. In reality, it was a plot to assuage his loneliness by getting the doctor into his shop for an alteration. 

The whole thing had been a dismal failure. In almost two years, Bashir had used only one coupon of twenty, when he replicated trousers which he otherwise liked but found Ktarian ‘extra tall’ too long even for his legs. The result, after Garak was done with them, had been impressive, if he did say so himself. The doctor had a lovely body, some of the loveliest parts of it being those contained within the average pair of trousers, and so in addition to the obvious hemming of the legs, all it had taken for the garment to be quite stunning on him was a few darts to better shape it to the curvier parts of his body. 

Alas, Doctor Bashir had not seemed to notice or value how absolutely devastating he looked in the altered trousers, with the fabric now caressing his buttocks instead of hanging off of them, even though Garak had pointed out just how well they now fit him, with the help of some well-placed mirrors as visual aids. He had not been back as a customer since. The doctor was evidently as blind to style as he was immune to the allure of saving thirty percent on his bill. Garak attributed this to a lack of interest in fashion combined with not having any concern over finances. 

But still, Garak had not given up trying. Why, he wasn’t exactly sure. There was absolutely no indication that Bashir was ever going to change his sadly unkempt ways, and Garak wasn’t this blindly optimistic in other aspects of his life. He supposed he just liked the way the doctor would gamely take the coupon, thank him sincerely and politely, and stuff it away. It wasn’t as if Garak had much else he could give, and the idea that the doctor would have to later take it from his pocket, even if just to consign it to the reclaimer, and thus have cause to think of Garak in the privacy of his quarters, was something of a comfort. 

He was growing worryingly sentimental in his exile. 

* * *

Julian fingered the coupon in his pocket as he strode back to the infirmary. He might have taken offense at the continued insistence that he use it, but luckily, he knew better. 

Garak had a funny way of expressing affection, that was all. It wasn’t that Julian had any particular objection to having his uniform taken in or his holosuite suit sleeves...extended? What would that even be called? It was just that it was unnecessary. All his clothes looked perfectly fine. No one but Garak had ever said that they didn’t. He was sure that Garak only chided him about these things because, well, that was just his way of showing he cared. He was a man who constantly had his barriers up, and the haranguing he gave Julian about his wardrobe was probably one of the few ways he felt he could connect on a more personal level — all under the guise of professional advice, of course. 

Oh, Julian had his ‘tailor’ friend sussed, alright.

And it was no coincidence, Julian had long ago surmised, that Garak had only begun really lecturing him in vain about his clothes after the very raw incident with the implant had caused him to reveal how much he truly valued Julian as a friend. And maybe more? Julian had never been sure about that, and he knew he wasn’t the best judge. And the walls had gone straight back up immediately after Garak’s recovery, of course, so Julian had never dared follow up what was most likely just wishful thinking on his part. But. What was said was said, though they both pretended otherwise. The personal delivery of the coupons had soon followed, all part of the elaborate ruse. Just as you’d expect from a former spy forced to fritter away his devious mind on trouser fittings or whatever it was Garak did all day. 

Julian found it extremely endearing. But in no way would he dream of actually using the coupons. He was well aware that Garak didn’t have the privileges he enjoyed as Federation citizen. Bajor, and thus DS9, still had a money-based society, and that meant Garak had to pay for his food, shelter, and whatever other basic necessities he required. And that in turn meant that Garak didn’t run his tailor shop merely out of passion for the craft or even because he needed a cover story, but because he had to make money to live. How could Julian take advantage of their little game of barbs just for unnecessary alterations that were surely were more trouble than they were worth to Garak? He had better things to do with his time, no doubt, than extend Julian Bashir’s flimsy James Bond trousers. Especially for thirty percent off. What was the profit margin on alterations anyway? Garak always found a way to evade answering questions about the financial side of his business, though he was happy to opine on fashion. 

The one time Julian had brought something in to be altered, an otherwise very nice pair of Ktarian trousers (Ktarian chic being all the rage at the time) that were so long there had been about fifteen extra centimetres of fabric flapping around the bottom of each leg, he’d tried to pay full price by ‘forgetting’ his coupon. Garak had insisted on giving him the discount anyway, though, maintaining that of course he trusted his dear doctor to drop by the next day on his way to work to deliver the coupon. Julian had conceded, and when he’d come in with the coupon the next day, he’d been mortified to discover that not only had Garak hemmed the legs, he’d done something to, in his words ‘enhance the fit’. It had all been too much, and Julian couldn’t help but feel a little pang of guilt every time he wore them (though he had to admit, they were the most flattering pair of trousers he owned). He’d seen how sparse and tiny Garak’s quarters were, how he consistently chose the more reasonably-priced meals at the Replimat. Surely Garak needed the latinum more than Julian did. 

No, Julian wasn’t about to take advantage of their friendship for superfluous adjustments to his uniforms or holosuite costumes. He cared about Garak - rather more than he ought - and you didn’t waste someone’s time when you valued them. 

He mentally shelved the subject of Garak’s sartorial critiques as he approached the infirmary. His afternoon was full of routine appointments: annual physicals to conduct, birth control hypos to administer, the latest Starfleet Medical bulletin sitting unread in his inbox. 

By the time he hurried into Quark’s, seven minutes late to meet Miles, he’d forgotten all about the coupon. 

“Sorry,” he said, nodding thanks to Ferengi waiter who dropped two pints of Antedean ale at their table. “When I agreed to take a medical resident from Bajor, I had no idea how much paperwork would be involved.” The Bajoran Association of Physicians’ medical apprenticeship program involved copious documentation. Julian had thought he finished going through the forms four days ago, but apparently that was only round one. 

“You’re grand.” Miles was unconcerned. It wasn’t unusual for either of them to be late for darts. In fact, this was such a common occurrence they’d agreed that less than ten minutes didn’t require a comm. “I actually just got here myself. Keiko sent a package up from Bajor and I had to drop it home. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They both drank. “I hope you remembered to put them in the stasis field.” 

“Eh? What are you talking about, Julian?” 

“The plant samples.” Miles was his friend, but as a fellow scientist, Julian had sympathised with Keiko when Miles had accidentally set back her work by weeks because he’d forgotten to put her specimens in stasis.

“Come on, that was one time. And anyway, this wasn’t plant samples. It was clothes.” 

“Oh.” A thought occurred to Julian. “Why’s Keiko sending you clothes from Bajor? Aren’t she and Molly back on the station tomorrow anyway?” 

“Yeah, but the baggage allowance on the shuttle is ridiculous, so she sent a load of Molly’s clothes on ahead. They have limited replicator access in the Janitzas, so a lot of Molly’s things are hand-made,” said Miles, as if that explained that. 

“But why don’t they just leave them there? They’re going back in a few days, aren’t they? Surely she doesn’t need that many clothes.”

“You can tell you’re a bachelor, Julian. Kids are a mess. They go through clothes like that.” Miles snapped his fingers. “But the real reason is she’s grown out of everything. Again. And she’s attached to some of them. We need to take them to your friend and see if he can do anything.” 

“Garak?” Julian reached into his pocket and brushed the by-now crumpled paper with his fingertips. He’d never thought about it before, having grown up wearing mostly replicated things that went right back into the reclaimer at the end of the day, but of course it made sense that a growing child’s clothes could be extended by a skilled tailor. 

“Yeah, Garak,” sighed Miles resignedly. “I suppose I’ll be taking her tomorrow.” 

Julian didn’t think. He had a coupon, the O’Briens needed alterations — probably a lot, if Julian knew anything about kids — and so he drew the coupon out of his pocket and presented it to Miles. “Do you want this? Garak’s doing another coupon campaign.”

Miles glanced at the coupon. “Huh. I didn’t know Garak did coupons. Sure, thanks, Julian.” He stuffed it into his own pocket. 

Julian felt a flutter of guilt. Miles would have had the alterations done anyway, and Julian had just as good as deprived Garak of what was probably some much-needed income. But he stifled the feeling. It was different for Miles. He had a child, after all, and so the alterations were very necessary. Besides, Garak charged extra for rush jobs, which this would undoubtedly be, so he’d still make out well on the order. “You’re welcome. Now, shall we start this game? Ensign Nguyen’s been eyeing the dart board for the last five minutes.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Miles wouldn’t have said that taking Molly to Garak’s Clothiers was the absolute last thing he wanted to be doing. He could, for example, have been crawling around conduits on a strict deadline to perform an engineering miracle or else people would die. It was a rare month when that didn’t happen. With his service record, it wasn’t hard to think of even worse scenarios. Facing execution after a Cardassian sham trial came to mind. 

At least this way he was spending time with his daughter. He’d have preferred to keep Garak out of his precious father-daughter time, was all. 

Unfortunately, Molly’s bottom lip had started to tremble when he suggested replicating her some new clothes. She wanted to keep her favorite dress, and Keiko had already told her that was probably possible if they brought it to Garak, so there was no going back now. Miles didn’t get to see his daughter nearly enough. He wasn’t about to go making her cry when she was on the station. 

This errand was therefore unavoidable, and he’d resigned himself to putting up with Garak being… well, Garak. All smug insinuations with a hefty dose of Cardassian superiority complex. Why Julian _liked_ spending time with the man, Miles would never know. There had to be other people on the station who enjoyed talking about books, didn’t there? 

What DS9 didn’t have was another tailor. Keiko’s team wasn’t near one either, so here Miles was, standing in front of Garak’s Clothiers with a bag of clothes in one hand and Molly holding his other. 

Last time Keiko had done this part. Miles had known his luck would run out sometime. 

“Good afternoon, Chief,” said Garak, looking up from some feathery thing he was assembling. 

“Hi!” said Molly. 

“Hello. Have you grown again, Miss O’Brien?”

She nodded and held a thumb and finger up proudly. “I’m this much taller.” (She hadn’t grown _that_ much.) 

“Oh, dear. In that case, I’m not sure we’ll be able to let them out enough.” Miles started to glare, but Garak was already backtracking. “But perhaps I’m mistaken. Let’s have a look and see what can be done.”

Miles handed over the bag of clothes. He didn’t know if it was better or worse that he’d barely needed to participate in the conversation. 

“Now, Miss O’Brien,” said Garak, emptying the colourful bundle of clothes onto his work table, “let’s see what we‘ve got here.” From the pile he plucked a soft purple dress with a winking yellow hara cat on the front. “I believe this is your favourite?” he asked, shaking it out.

Molly nodded. Christ, how had he known that?

“Excellent. Why don’t you go put it on so we can get you measured?”

“Okay,” said Molly. She slipped her hand out of Miles’ and took the garment from Garak, then began striding with a purposeful air towards the fitting room. Miles was surprised at her comfort with the place, but he supposed she’d been in Garak’s more than he had. He made to follow her.

“No, thank you, Daddy,” said Molly. “I can do it myself now.” 

“They grow up so fast,” Garak tutted sympathetically as Miles turned back to the counter. 

“They do.” Miles looked at the pile of clothes. There were a lot of them. He hoped to hell Garak didn’t need to measure each one. 

After forty-five long minutes, and probably a few measurements which weren’t strictly necessary done anyway because Garak was a bastard, Miles reviewed his order. “Looks alright,” he said. “Any chance you can get this done in three days?”

Garak gestured to a sign, in bold Bajoran script with slightly smaller Federation Standard below, listing his shop policies. “I can, if you’re willing to pay the rush fee.”

Not like he had much choice, did he? “Yeah, we’ll pay it.” If Julian wanted extra holosuite time before the next stipend payout, it’d be his latinum. This was a perk to having a bachelor for a best friend. Miles got to enjoy some of Julian’s extra disposable income. 

Speaking of Julian… “I’ve got a coupon.” Miles produced the slip of crumpled paper, not sure why Garak was looking at him funny. Well, funnier than usual. 

“I see. Doctor Bashir has been generous, hasn’t he?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Miles, still confused. Was it his imagination, or did Garak seem annoyed about the coupon? If he didn’t want people saving thirty percent, why bother with coupons? It made no sense. Unlike Julian, Miles wasn’t interested in figuring Garak out, which was probably a lost cause anyway. He stuck with the practical. “Well. What’s the damage?”

* * *

“He said he’d be able to let everything out except these,” said Miles. 

Keiko was relieved as she looked into the much-diminished bag to see only a pair of beloved blue pyjamas that had really been much too small for Molly for months already. Molly had grown fond of her non-replicated clothing, and on top of that it hadn’t exactly been cheap or convenient to procure. If Keiko had to do it over again she might have brought more replicated things in various sizes to Bajor in the first place, but children were full of surprises, and Molly had had an unprecedented growth spurt during their first stint in the mountains. Keiko then had no choice but to buy some locally-made clothes for Molly. As it had turned out, the Bajoran clothes were far warmer and more durable than the replicated ones, and buying them had the additional benefit of helping the recovering Bajoran economy, so it hadn’t been long before Molly’s wardrobe had been made up almost exclusively of bright woven dresses and leggings, just like those of the village kids in the Janitza Mountains. 

“This is great, Molly!” Always best to focus on the positives with children. “You can keep almost everything. And we can give these pyjamas to Covys.” Covys was the younger of two sisters Molly went to school with in the mountain village on Bajor. 

“Yes, Mommy. That’s what Mr Garak said, too.” Molly, sitting unconcerned at the coffee table, was already back at the coloring she’d been made to abandon for the trip to Garak’s. Well, that was a relief in more ways than one. Thank goodness for Garak. He was a genius with a needle and thread, and really great with children, too. Keiko sometimes wondered if he had any of his own back on Cardassia; he had never mentioned a partner or family, but everyone knew Garak had a mysterious past, so anything was possible. Maybe it was her imagination, but no matter how he tried to hide it with a cheerful smile, Keiko had always sensed from Garak something of an air of...was it wistfulness? Loneliness? Something like that, anyway. 

“Garak’s a godsend,” said Keiko.

“A godsend with a price tag,” Miles retorted.

There was that. Garak’s expertise didn’t come cheap. Keiko didn’t begrudge him the latinum, as he didn’t enjoy any of the benefits of Federation or Bajoran citizenship, which meant he needed his fees in order to eat. “Was it a lot?” 

“Nah, I’m only joking. Sort of. It would have been a lot, with the rush fee, but Julian gave me one of his coupons.” Miles told her the amount. 

“Hmmm, that’s not bad at all.” Would it even cover the labor? “I didn’t know Garak did coupons.” 

“Neither did I. But according to Julian he’s been doing them for ages.” 

Keiko was a semi-regular customer and this was the first she’d heard of Garak issuing coupons. “Really?” she said, amused. “We must not be on the mailing list.” 

Miles snorted. “Too exclusive for the likes of us, I guess. Wonder how Julian rates. He never gets anything altered.” He paused. “Except for that one pair of trousers that Garak decided needed to flatter his arse.”

“Miles!” Keiko stole a glance at Molly, but she was absorbed in her coloring, so Keiko allowed herself a giggle. “I don’t think you told me about that!” 

“I’d like to forget it, to be honest.”

“Garak really did that?”

“According to Julian. I wasn’t looking at his arse, so I can’t confirm it.” 

Keiko gave her husband an affectionate smack his own bottom and took the pyjamas into the bedroom to pack. 

Now that was a funny pair, Garak and Julian. Keiko’s own interactions with Julian in the early days on DS9 had been mostly during visits to the Infirmary with Molly, and Julian in full doctor mode was a consummate professional who inspired confidence and trust. But now that she knew him better as a friend, she could see how certain aspects of his personality might have rubbed a lot of people, including Miles, the wrong way. She knew that he’d had trouble connecting with people when he’d first arrived on the station. Miles had called him a human labrador, and it hadn’t been a compliment. Garak had been Julian’s only friend for a while, before Julian had learned to rein in his more grating personality traits. Keiko wondered what Garak had seen that no one else had. 

_Well, it wasn’t his fashion sense,_ she thought fondly. Odd that Julian would be such close friends with a tailor and still have no clue that his off-duty wardrobe could in fact use some tailoring. Didn’t he ever use those coupons that Garak gave him? She supposed not. 

_It wasn’t his bottom, either_. She snorted at the notion. Although, _that_ wasn’t so far-fetched, was it? It was easy to forget, thinking of him as she did as a sort of awkward younger brother-type, but Julian was an objectively good-looking man, at least from a human perspective. Was it so unbelievable that Garak might appreciate human beauty? Even if he did have a family on Cardassia, it didn’t mean he couldn’t look. 

And...did he even have a family on Cardassia? A partner, kids? Keiko realised she’d just always assumed he did. Didn’t most Cardassians his age have spouses and large families? Especially the men. But just because most did, it didn’t necessarily follow that Garak did. He’d always been a little different, and even the most taciturn parents eventually talked about their kids. 

Maybe Garak really was alone? Maybe...he wanted more than friendship with Julian? It certainly wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility, and given that Julian remained Garak’s only real friend in the station, it was entirely believable that Garak would want to be cautious about pursuing him...

Keiko stood abruptly from where she’d been kneeling on the floor, re-arranging her suitcase. The blue pyjamas fell into a heap. Of course. Of course! How hadn’t she seen it before?

“Miles! MILES! Honey, we have to talk about Julian!”

* * *

“Oh, no,” groaned Miles. She hadn’t expected him to be pleased with her realization. “Are you sure about this?”

“Sure enough.” It was hard to be one hundred percent certain about anything involving Garak, after all. “Think about it, honey. Doesn’t it make sense?”

“Yeah,” said Miles, grudgingly. 

“The strange part is that Julian hasn’t picked up on it.”

This got her a knowing look from her husband. “You have met Julian, right?”

“I know he’s not always the best at reading people,” Keiko said, “but hasn’t he been getting better? And anyway, with how he looks at Garak, you’d think he would be watching for hints Garak returns his feelings.”

“What feelings?” asked Miles.

Surely he’d noticed. “The feelings which are obvious if you see the two of them in the Replimat.”

“He hasn’t said anything about feelings for Garak.”

Keiko sighed. She loved Miles deeply, but she didn’t like how he handled matters with Cardassians. Never having fought a war against them herself, she tried to tread lightly on the subject, doubly so since Cardassians had framed and almost executed Miles. (Keiko had been mightily angry about that, too. She just chose not to blame an entire race.) Still, this had to be said: “Don’t you think he might decide not to tell you because he knows you wouldn’t react well?”

“It’s not that Garak is a Cardassian,” said Miles. To his credit, he’d been less prejudiced since he worked with those Cardassian scientists last year. Keiko was proud of him, though she saw further room for improvement. “He was in the Obsidian Order.”

Garak’s past, or what everyone assumed was his past but no one could quite confirm, didn’t make him irredeemable. Keiko operated under the assumption that very few people were beyond hope. If she was single, a former Obsidian Order agent wouldn’t be someone she’d personally feel like dealing with as a romantic partner any more than she’d be willing to take on all Garak’s mystery, but it clearly didn’t bother Julian. Keiko had her suspicions that Leeta ended things with Julian over his obvious interest in Garak, or at least that it was a contributing factor. 

“We don’t even know he’s not still in it,” Miles went on. 

“Last I heard, there isn’t an Obsidian Order anymore. Besides, this isn’t about what you or I think. It’s about what would make Julian happy.” Miles got what Keiko privately thought of as his I-know-you’re-right-but-I-don’t-like-it look. She pressed the advantage. “He’s a grown man, Miles. He can choose who he wants to date.”

“I know he can.”

“We’re just giving him more information.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yes,” said Keiko. Otherwise, who knew how long it would be before Julian realized on his own? His track record with this kind of thing was pretty bad. 

“If they date and break up, Julian’s gonna want to talk my ear off during lunches.”

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

“‘We’,” snorted Miles.


	3. Chapter 3

Part of having a best friend with a child was being asked to babysit. Or so Julian was learning. Jadzia said it was a universal constant, and he was inclined to believe her. 

This was a newer development, because Julian and Miles hadn’t been close enough for any child-watching requests before Keiko and Molly left for Bajor. Last time the two were back, the Petersons were off at a family wedding and Julian found himself Plan B for Miles and Keiko’s date night. Despite his anxiety, that evening had gone fine, and he was much less worried this time round. All he had to do was entertain Molly for two hours and get her to bed, then he had time to catch up on his medical journals until Miles and Keiko got home. 

Honestly, the hardest part last time had been refusing Molly’s requests for ‘just one cookie, please?’ Miles and Keiko had been very clear that if she had sugar before bed, she’d be up for hours. Julian was better prepared to hold firm without guilt tonight. He pressed the door chime after mentally rehearsing one more time. 

“Come in!” called Keiko. 

For a man about to go out with his dearly missed wife, Miles didn’t look happy. “Is everything alright?” Julian asked. 

“Everything is great,” said Keiko. “We really appreciate you babysitting for us on such short notice again.”

“It’s no problem.” Happily, Molly wasn’t a difficult child. Last time she’d taught Julian how to play a Bajoran children’s card game, and Julian learned he could do a credible job of throwing said game. 

“Before we go, there’s something we want to mention.” That was Keiko again. Julian ventured to guess that whatever the something was, Miles didn’t want to bring it up. 

“Oh? What’s that?” He hoped he hadn’t done something wrong last time he watched Molly. They would’ve said so earlier, wouldn’t they? Julian didn’t have babysitting experience, and his childcare knowledge came almost exclusively from pediatrics, so he was open to suggestions. Besides, he was fairly certain parents got significant veto powers in this situation. 

Keiko asked, “You do realize Garak doesn’t give anyone else coupons, right?”

“What?” That didn’t make sense. Garak ran campaigns regularly. And yes, his relationship with the truth was highly flexible, but what possible reason could he have to lie about _coupons?_ Particularly when such an easily disproved falsehood was simply sloppy.

“The one you gave me? He knew it was from you,” Miles said. “Didn’t seem too happy about me using it, either.”

“And I’ve asked around,” Keiko added. “No one else has ever heard of Garak handing out coupons.”

The thing about Garak, Julian had learned very early in their acquaintance, was that he had a reason for everything he did, no matter how small and meaningless it might seem at first glance. Puzzling out his motivations was usually a diverting (and rewarding) pastime. Every now and again, though, Julian tired of the elaborate deliberations required of him and wanted to know what the hell was going on. This was one of those times. 

“Do you happen to have any theories as to why he’s been faking coupon campaigns?” he asked. “Because I’m coming up short.” 

“He didn’t want to admit that he’s only giving them to you,” said Keiko. “And he’s giving them to you because he’s interested in more than friendship.”

Julian’s brain processes came to a screeching halt. 

“It’s obvious that he’s attracted to you, Julian,” continued Keiko. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

It took a moment for him to respond. Having come back online, his brain was now going at warp speed supplying him with times he’d wondered if, just maybe, Garak was interested. “Ah, I thought it might have been… wishful thinking?” He left out the part where he’d learned better than to trust his own read on these situations. While his attempts to master the art of interpersonal cues were ongoing, he at least knew better than to assume he did interpret them correctly.

Miles shook his head. “He altered trousers to show off your arse. Which I still didn’t need to know, by the way.”

“That could be a thing tailors do for their friends.” In fact, it hadn’t even been on Julian’s list of potential flirtations. 

“Or he just wanted to admire the view,” said Keiko with a knowing grin. 

“Oh my God.” That would change everything. “I asked him about the flirting through arguments after Gilora Rejal, you know.”

“Course you did,” said Miles.

“And?” asked Keiko.

“He said the subtleties don’t translate well. Evidently there’s a difference between amorous debate and regular debate.”

“Is there any chance he would’ve said that thinking you’d be offended to realize he’d been coming on to you this whole time?”

He thought back to the conversation. Garak _had_ been a touch defensive, but that wasn’t unprecedented, and Julian had attributed it to ongoing homesickness stirred up by the visiting scientists, combined with being grilled on Cardassian customs in a situation outside his own control. In retrospect, that could’ve been wildly off the mark. Had Garak been hoping Julian would understand and want more than friendly lunches? He might have said so. And yes, you could say Julian might have said so, too, but Garak was much better at reading social cues. He had to have noticed Julian’s interest, hadn’t he? Julian had it on good authority that he was never subtle. 

Or maybe Garak was just as unsure about cross-cultural signals and worried about hurting their friendship. Julian at least had other friends on DS9. Without Julian, who would Garak have?

“I’m afraid I’ve been quite blind,” he said. 

Molly came out of her room dragging a blanket on which she appeared to have piled every stuffed animal she owned. “Hi Julian! Can we have a tea party?”

How was he supposed to focus on babysitting now? It would have been nice if Miles and Keiko had shared their insight later, when he could go home and think about it without interruption. He had a great deal of reevaluation to do, and he wanted to start at once. 

Looking at Molly’s expectant face, he managed to answer her. “Of course we can. Though I may need you to explain the rules.”

“Tea parties don’t have rules,” she said, as though he ought to have known this obvious fact. “It’s even more fun if you do voices.”

Voices? That did not play to Julian’s strengths. He hoped Molly wasn’t a budding theatre critic. Well, he’d been told he did a passable American accent when tipsy. Perhaps he could manage it sober. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” Turning back to Keiko, he asked, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She reached up to pat his shoulder. “He’s very interested. And I want updates.”

As she went to put on her shoes, Julian leaned over to quietly ask Miles, in his best incredulous tone, “You sprung this on me now?”

“No offense, but you and Garak are not what we want to think about when we get home from our date, if you know what I mean.”

Ah. That made sense. “Right.”

“Come on, Julian!” said Molly. “I need you to replicate the tea.”

“We’re using real tea?” Evidently he had a lot to learn about tea parties. Eyeing the stuffed animals, he wondered just how many voices he was expected to provide here. Maybe the sehlat could follow Vulcan speech patterns. 

“Replicated-real,” said Molly. 

“And not hot,” added Keiko. 

Setting aside the internal monologue of _I have been an idiot_ and _Garak likes me!_ , Julian told Miles and Keiko to have a good evening and settled in for a tea party. He didn’t have much choice but to focus on Molly until she was asleep, and he’d spent this long doing absolutely nothing about his interest in Garak. He could wait a little bit longer.


	4. Chapter 4

It quickly became apparent that  _ The Scarlet Letter  _ would be incomprehensible without some background research on the time and place of its setting. The very first chapter mentioned a ‘New World,’ but Garak doubted this was a reference to a planet colonized by humans, since Bashir said the novel was five hundred years old. 

The doctor would probably find cause to complain, once more, that he didn’t have the same ready access to Cardassian cultural information that Garak had to human. That was true, but hardly Garak’s fault. He appreciated the doctor’s willingness to quibble all the same, even if it didn’t carry the same connotations coming from Bashir it would have from a fellow Cardassian. 

Garak stretched in his chair and considered whether he wanted to continue to trudge through the book or just give up and get an extra hour of sleep. How sad that these were his two options. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to share his sofa with someone (for example a handsome and opinionated young human doctor) who would avidly bat back Garak’s nitpicks and criticisms of Hawthorne’s work? Or avidly join him in other, more physically strenuous activities. Garak was open to many possibilities. 

Alas, it was just him and a book of which he could make little sense. The author had not seen fit to specify the significance of the titular letter, which was doubly irksome considering how often Bashir complained that Cardassian authors never explained anything. Garak supposed the meaning of this scarlet letter was obvious to humans. Perhaps an A in the color of blood signified Hester Prynne was an assassin? If he remembered his Federation Standard correctly, which he generally did, it was a plausible theory, and Garak decided to share it with Bashir regardless of how correct it proved to be.

His door chimed. 

This, regrettably, constituted an intriguing change of pace for one of Garak’s evenings. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Julian Bashir.”

How delightfully unexpected. The doctor did not make a habit of visiting Garak’s quarters. In fact, he’d only been inside them when the implant was breaking down and Garak was dying. Fortunately, Garak was tidy by nature so his space was presentable. His attire, on the other hand… “One moment, please,” he said, and quickly changed from his loungewear to an outfit suitable for public viewing, all the while curious as to Bashir’s purpose.

He opened the door to the doctor with his arms full of garments. Specifically, holosuite costumes. Garak spotted the familiar James Bond suit, a curious outfit comprised of a navy coat and peculiar white knee-length trousers, and an Archer-era Starfleet uniform which Garak recognized because at least some people on the station liked their holosuite costumes to fit. 

“Do come in, Doctor.” Perhaps this meant the man had finally realized he was sorely in need of Garak’s professional services, though why Bashir felt the need to bring his ill-fitting garments to Garak’s quarters now, instead of visiting the shop during business hours, Garak couldn’t fathom. 

“I’m sorry, Garak, I don’t have a coupon,” Bashir said, stepping across the threshold. “But I wanted to talk to you about those alterations you’ve been hounding me to get done.” There was a spark in the doctor’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows. 

What was this? It was not unusual for the doctor to make deliberately challenging statements over lunch, but showing up at Garak’s front door at bedtime, blatantly rejecting Garak’s offered coupon, and accusing Garak of  _ hounding _ him, well. If the doctor were Cardassian this would be a shameless and unmistakable seduction attempt. 

But Bashir was not Cardassian. Garak attempted to extinguish the glimmers of hope and arousal that had ignited at seeing the provocative ( _ to a Cardassian, Elim _ ) challenge in the doctor’s face. What a fanciful notion. Who knew what had spurred him to finally care about his holosuite garments? Garak knew the doctor had spent the evening caring for the O’Brien child. Maybe the chief, or more likely the chief’s well-dressed wife, had said something to him. 

But still. The doctor was here. No matter why, Garak’s evening had improved immensely. 

“I’m delighted something has finally made you see reason, Doctor, but I’m not sure what you think I can do for you here in my quarters.” 

“Can’t you measure me or something? I assume you keep some kind of tailoring equipment at home.” 

Well. Well! This was an even greater change from the usual. If Garak was any judge of human communication, the doctor was being far more obstreperous than he normally was in their interactions. Especially given the relatively (to Bashir, anyway) low-stakes topic.

There was nothing to do but play along and see where the doctor went. On this station, one could never be certain with such situations. For all Garak knew, Bashir had been exposed to some hitherto unknown alien influence which made him suddenly and urgently interested in fashion. Stranger things had happened. 

”You assume wrong. I do have a life outside of my shop, Doctor.” Not much of one, really, though Bashir didn’t need to know that. “But I suppose I could replicate a measuring tape and do this the old-fashioned way.” Garak sighed, as if it would be an exasperating burden instead of a delightful treat. Of course he had basic tailoring equipment at home, but it would serve little purpose to reveal that fact. When courting a serious prospect, the smallest point of contention should be seized upon. And anyway, measuring tapes were much more hands-on than any modern method. “Here, give me those.” 

Bashir handed over the bundle of costumes without a word. Garak tutted and arrayed them over his sofa with unceremonious, efficient professionalism that he did not feel. 

“What is this ridiculous garment, Doctor?” He tried to infuse just the right amount of derision into his question as he held the blue-and-white thing up against Bashir’s lanky frame. “I wasn’t aware you were interested in Ferengi history.” Though the trousers would’ve been short even on a Ferengi, the coat was covered with a frankly ridiculous number of gold buttons that would have turned the head of any fashion-conscious member of that race. 

“I’m not. That’s for the Battle of Trafalgar program. One of the great naval victories in human history, valiantly saving Britain from invasion by the French.” Bashir set his chin defiantly. “At the time, it was a great triumph for a parliamentary system over authoritarianism.” 

Garak was unclear on the finer points of human subcultures, though he was aware that Bashir claimed to be ‘more or less British’ when pressed. Cardassian culture was largely uniform by design and enforcement. That, Garak thought, might make a useful subject of disagreement. First he had to answer the doctor’s obvious challenge about governments. Not that he particularly cared to delve too deeply into politics at the moment, but as a matter of principle he couldn’t cede the point so easily.

“And I’m sure this parliamentary government was so inefficient it’s a wonder they managed any military triumphs. But really, Doctor, I think my skills will be wasted on this costume.” Garak draped the outfit dismissively, but not too dismissively, over the back of the sofa. 

Bashir’s brow furrowed. The skin on human faces was so captivatingly limber. “Shows what you know. The Royal Navy is generally acknowledged to have been Earth’s most powerful maritime force for two hundred years. And you know how much water we have on Earth.” He crossed his arms. Oh, very good. This was a human gesture of defiance that Garak had identified early on in their acquaintance. “And as for my costumes, you’ve been at me to get them altered forever. If you’ve suddenly decided they’re not worth your time, then you should have let me know before I took the trouble to bring them to you. It’s not very respectful, Garak.” 

Garak had, when pressed by Bashir the previous year, declined to elaborate as to precisely how courtship and seduction differed from truly hostile arguments. He regretted that now. If he’d shared the information, he wouldn’t have been standing there wondering if the doctor had any clue what he was doing. It seemed terribly unlikely that Bashir had suddenly decided he was interested in more than lunches, and yet Garak struggled to think of another explanation (aside from alien influence, which he hadn’t ruled out but thought unlikely.)

“I hardly think a man who shows up at my private quarters late in the evening demanding to be measured is in a position to speak about lack of respect.”

Bashir opened his mouth, but hesitated. Garak’s stomach clenched.  _ Easy, Elim. If he really is doing what you hope he’s doing, you have to remember he’s human. He may not fully understand. Be prepared to pull back if you have to.  _

But there was to be no pulling back yet. The flicker of uncertainty Garak had seen in the doctor’s eyes was replaced by a confident, nearly devilish gleam.

“To humans, deferring to someone else’s expertise connotes respect. I’m sorry you can’t see that.” 

“So you say, but if that were true, you’d have come to me years ago.” 

“Is this like one of your repetitive epics where none of the characters are permitted any growth or changes of mind? Because you know how I feel about those.”

Yes, Garak did. Bashir had been exceptionally clear about his thoughts on the matter. This subject, however, was not as fruitful in terms of disagreement if the doctor actually wanted his clothes altered. It would not do at all for courtship. Which Garak may or may not have been engaged in; he still wasn’t sure. 

Well. That was to say,  _ Garak  _ was certainly engaged in it. Whether or not Bashir was also remained in question. 

“Dare I assume I’ve made a valid point?” asked Bashir with a smirk, far too pleased with himself. 

“Hardly, Doctor. I’m trying to decide where to begin on my suggestions for a complete overhaul of your wardrobe. You may think of it as fashion triage, if you like.”

Bashir snorted. “One minute you’re too good for my costumes, the next you’re overhauling my wardrobe. Will you make up your mind?” There was an edge to his voice that both thrilled Garak and gave him pause. Thrilled because, if he were courting another Cardassian, this would be the moment to move into Bashir’s personal space and respond icily in kind, leading to one-upmanship from his partner, which, if all parts of the intricate exchange were coordinated correctly, would crescendo deliciously into an extremely satisfying understanding between the two parties. And, perhaps, an extremely satisfying physical consensus, as well. 

But to a human, even one who thought he knew what he was doing courting a Cardassian, such a response could seem cruel. Even friendship-ending. Best to temper the usual edge, Garak decided. He could, however, escalate with physical closeness while still giving himself a plausible excuse should Bashir not, in fact, have shown up this evening for a very blatant seduction. 

“But I have made up my mind, Doctor,” said Garak, putting a warmth into his voice that was the exact opposite of what his instincts were telling him to do. “This one first.” He indicated the grey suit from the spy program. This was the item, aside from the objectionable uniforms, of course, that he saw the doctor in most often these days, and if he only had the chance to alter one piece of Bashir’s wardrobe, it was going to be this. 

Bashir hesitated. “Okay.”

“What are you waiting for, Doctor?” Bashir hadn’t moved, so Garak gathered up the costume and thrust it into his arms. “Get changed. Go on.” He didn’t offer the use of his bathroom, the only private place in his small quarters. If the doctor wanted privacy, he could ask for it. His choice of where and how to disrobe could provide valuable information as to his intentions this evening. 

Or not. Bashir simply stood there looking forlorn. That could have so many different meanings, Garak dared not venture a guess. 

“Doctor, I can’t measure you like this. Shirt and trousers on, jacket off, if you please. And did you bring the shoes? No, of course you didn’t. Never mind, we’ll do what we can.” Garak turned to the replicator, one eye still on his guest thanks to a well-placed and well-polished plant pot. It was never prudent to completely turn one’s back on a room, after all.

“Okay,” said Bashir again, and mirrored Garak, shuffling obediently around so his back was also to the room. He began to unzip the top of his uniform. 

This development unfortunately provided little useful data. For a Cardassian, the act of disrobing in the presence of another, when there was a choice not to, would indicate a fairly strong intimacy, or a desire for such. But Garak had the impression that humans were less modest. He was fairly certain that the doctor wouldn’t hesitate to change his clothes in a similar way in the presence of Chief O’Brien, for example. Disappointed, he began punching in the schematics for a measuring tape.

“Garak?” The tiny, upside-down reflection in the plant pot turned. 

“Yes?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the doctor found his courage and asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

Heartened, Garak hedged his bets with a quibble. “You’ll have to be more specific.” The measuring tape materialised, and taking it in hand, he turned round to face the doctor, who had not gone any further than undoing the top of his jumpsuit. “For instance, you went quite astray with the outfit you wore to Commander Dax’s party last week, as far as I could tell from across the Promenade.” 

“I meant just now. I thought… or maybe Keiko was wrong.”

He should not have required encouragement from Professor Ishikawa to start what Garak, despite his natural realism, was now almost certain was an attempt at seduction (or courtship; it was impossible to be certain with the doctor’s lack of finesse, though in fairness he couldn’t be expected to know the differences). Aware of Bashir’s tendencies toward being unmistakable about his intentions, and assuming this meant the doctor would require equally obvious cues directed his way, Garak had made it abundantly clear he would welcome such advances. He had even taken pains to incorporate human customs as well, such as the anodyne recommendation for extended eye contact. There ought not to have been doubt in the doctor’s mind. 

“Professor Ishikawa is an intelligent woman,” said Garak by way of encouragement. 

“Yes, and I thought the evening was going very well until you stopped arguing. So if you could be straightforward for once and tell me whether I did something wrong in my best attempt at Cardassian flirting or you’re simply not interested, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Garak’s heart skipped a beat. He stepped toward the doctor. 

“Doctor, that was an excellent attempt.” For a human. By Cardassian standards, it was roughly comparable to watching young adolescents attempt to interact like adults, but Bashir, as an alien, couldn’t be blamed for that. 

Relief passed over the doctor’s face, then utter disappointment. “So you’re not interested.” He darkened in that way humans often did when they were embarrassed, avoiding eye contact as he zipped his uniform back up. “I’m sorry, Garak. I really botched that one. I’ll go. Uh, I don’t know if you want me to take the costumes with me, or…?”

Oh, there was no way those costumes were leaving his quarters tonight. Garak channeled all his joy at the turn this evening had taken into another step towards the doctor. Then another. He was practically stalking. He knew the expression on his face must be a little menacing, too. He meant it to be. 

“Julian Bashir. You charge into my quarters just as I’m thinking about bed. You demand my attention like the overindulged, cosseted human you are, and as I’m graciously preparing, despite the late hour, to do as you ask, you change your mind based on some fanciful whim and threaten to leave me unsatisfied.”

The doctor’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Garak stalked into his personal bubble and placed a hand firmly on his chest. The doctor’s heart was hammering. 

“The costumes, Doctor. How could you finally, after all this time, take them to me for alterations and then cruelly snatch them back?”

Bashir blinked rapidly, confused. “Er, Garak, is this just about the costumes? I could really use a bit of clarity here.”

He obviously required further reassurance, though Garak thought he’d been perfectly clear (again). How did humans ever get around to consummating relationships if they required every step to be spelled out? Codified social customs made everything much simpler. They allowed both parties to know without question what was being requested and offered. Humans were so messy about the process. 

Well, allowances had to be made. Bashir was valiantly -- and tantalizingly -- doing his best to honor Garak’s culture. It would be quite rude not to give the doctor’s some consideration in return. “The costumes are only the beginning.”

Bashir’s grin was wider than Garak had ever seen. It was difficult to believe this was all for Garak himself. The evening had taken a remarkable turn for the better, and looked to improve further still. Eager to return to the more thrilling parts of this conversation, Garak went on, “Your costumes are in dire need of my services all the same. Goodness, Doctor, everyone on this station knows we have lunch together regularly. Has it ever occurred to you that your refusal to listen to my professional advice reflects poorly on me? No, of course not. And you still haven’t changed so I can measure you properly.” Garak placed a finger inside the seam of Bashir’s uniform and fondled the zipper. “I don’t want to tell you again, Doctor.  _ Take. Off. Your. Uniform.”  _ With each word Garak pushed the zipper down, exposing more of the shirt underneath which clung so invitingly to the doctor’s torso.

There. Could he be any more direct? 

“Right,” said the doctor. His pupils had grown and breathing quickened, both of which Garak took to be positive developments. “I’ll just… right.” He slipped his right arm out of its sleeve, then the left, and finally the top half of the jumpsuit hung down at the wretched elasticated waist, practically inviting Garak to tug the hideous garment all the way off. Hands twitching, he grasped the measuring tape with both of them instead. Propriety had to be observed, after all. Even with a human, it wouldn’t do to jump to the next stage before the present one had run its course. This was the time to observe and appreciate a lover, especially a new one, as his body was revealed. Not to jump on him like a riding hound in heat.

In the midst of Garak’s appreciation, Bashir had the nerve to  _ lick his lips _ . Garak drew in a sharp breath. It was far too soon for that. Although, Garak supposed, humans might view the action differently. 

After a lengthy pause to assess Garak’s reaction, Bashir apparently found whatever he was looking for. He wriggled his hips rather more than necessary when removing his trousers. Perhaps that was seductive for humans? Garak was decidedly more interested in seeing bare legs, which were finally revealed to him as Bashir stepped out of his uniform. 

And what splendid legs they were. The man was quite stunning. The uniform undershirt detracted, of course, but that could be remedied easily enough. 

“Well? Aren’t you going to measure me?” asked Bashir, pulling Garak’s hands, which were still clutching the measuring tape, to his hips. He managed to sound demanding in the most alluring way. 

Further light touching was appropriate at this stage, and Garak had wanted both to get his hands on Julian Bashir and measure him for properly fitted clothing for quite some time now, so he saw no further reason to deny himself on either point. 

“Of course, Doctor.” He reluctantly removed his hands from where they’d landed, half on the doctor’s Starfleet-issue briefs and half on his warm, smooth skin. “That’s why you’re here, after all. If you’ll turn around.” 

“Julian,” said the doctor, not turning. He gave Garak a brazen look and then whisked off his undershirt, tossing it carelessly onto the sofa. 

Garak was hardly paying attention to the trajectory of the garment, though. Here in front of him was rather one of the most attractive men he’d seen in a long time, despite, or perhaps because of, the lack of scale patterns defining his body lines. Garak had long been curious as to just how much hair Bashir had on his body. The answer was apparently not much, for a male human, but there was a little. It was so delightfully strange. Garak wondered how it would feel to brush his hands over it. 

“If we’re doing this, please call me Julian.”

It was a reasonable request. “Julian, my dear, turn around.” 

The doctor grinned and turned, and oh my.  _ Julian _ ’s bottom was undoubtedly one of his finest features, but Garak had never seen it in so little before. Even the dreadful Starfleet underpants, the same shade as his undershirt, couldn’t detract from that delectable curve. And it was clear that the doctor --  _ Julian  _ \-- knew it, by the way he was arching his back so that it stuck out just a little bit more than usual. Well. Luckily the time was right to enjoy this. Garak placed the end of the measuring tape between Julian’s shoulders and snaked it down his back until it reached his seat, which he touched gingerly as he pressed the measuring tape in. No more than was necessary for the task, though. The time to take that tempting body part in hand would arrive soon. However… “Julian, I will not be able to take a proper measurement until you stand naturally.” He swatted the left buttock lightly with his measuring tape, barely hard enough to be felt. “Kindly put this back where you normally keep it.” 

“I am standing naturally.” It was a bald-faced lie and they both knew it, but Julian resumed a more usual posture. Garak pressed the measuring tape to his bottom again and noted the measurement.

“Garak,” said Julian, “are you actually measuring me?” 

“Of course. Isn’t this what you wanted?” Garak placed the measuring tape on Julian’s right shoulder to measure his arm. 

Julian laughed. “It’s what you wanted, maybe. I admit I had ulterior motives.”

“Did you? I hadn’t noticed.” Garak was busy appreciating the body before him. The shoulders had seemed virtually hairless compared to his arms and legs, but on closer inspection there were fine hairs there as well. Garak dared to run a hand down the slim, toned arm. 

“Mmmmm,” said Julian, leaning into the touch. “Garak…”

“Yes?”

“Why did you stop arguing with me? Before?”

Garak sighed theatrically for effect. “Must you interfere with my work? It’s not surgery, I’ll grant, but tailoring does require careful attention to detail all the same. And stop fidgeting.”

“Then stop tickling me.”

This was tickling? While Garak had heard of the phenomenon, he’d never seen it in action. Cardassians were not so sensitive to delicate touches, which he considered to be a physiological asset once he’d learned just how unpleasant it could be for other races. He had it on good authority that Bajorans could be tickled to death. As that was decidedly not the kind of tone he wanted to set for the evening, he held the measuring tape just over Julian’s skin. 

This was evidently satisfactory, as Julian found no new complaint about tickling. To Garak’s good fortune, he was not so easily deterred from argument in general. “That was a very sloppy attempt to get out of my question, you know.”

If Julian was so unconcerned, perhaps Garak had inflated the consequences of tickling to be more dire than they truly were. One could never be certain with interspecies intimacy. Regardless, the challenge could not go unanswered, so he said, “You’re assuming it was such a thing. I am merely attempting to do my job properly, now that you’ve seen fit to give me the opportunity.” He underscored this sentiment by taking Julian firmly by the wrist and straightening his arm, so as to get a proper measurement.

“Oh, is that all? Because you would  _ never  _ try to avoid giving a simple answer, right?” Julian let him do it, but flexed his wrist rebelliously.

“I am always straightforward.” This was a lie, of course. Even by Cardassian standards, which Garak understood viewed subtlety and subtext more favorably than human, Garak was a master at the art of conversational evasion. When necessary (or simply bored and in need of any small challenge to entertain himself), he could slide through a conversation with the dexterity of a ra’sa snake, impossible to catch and frustratingly admirable to watch. He prided himself on the ability. 

Julian scoffed. He probably didn’t know that escalated the seduction, although if he did… well, Garak wasn’t about to complain either way. “You are as straightforward as I am a fashion genius. Why did you stop arguing? I’d like to know if I did something wrong, so I can do it properly next time.”

He was already thinking about next time, when they hadn’t even had the first time yet? How impetuous and human. And yet an electric feeling thrilled though Garak. Still, it wouldn’t do to openly display his elation at the prospect. “And with whom are you planning on having a ‘next time’?” 

Julian made an inarticulate sound of disbelief and turned around. His entire body was near enough that his warmth radiated into Garak’s chest. It was a closeness just the wrong side of acceptable at this stage in the process, and what’s more, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal was positively libertine. Garak was tempted to step back, but he had a feeling it would seem like another rejection to Julian. It wouldn’t do to confuse him even more. 

“With you, you infuriating man.” The sum total of their interactions that evening suggested Julian found Garak infuriating in all the best ways. How very Cardassian of him. “If you’ll have me.” He was coy in his words, but his tone was confident. “So tell me, was I unclear in my intentions? Why did you stop?”

The repetition grew tiresome. Either Julian was unaware that it was not considered the height of courtship, or he was genuinely concerned. If the latter was true, Garak deemed a bit of deviation from the usual conversational patterns to be worthwhile. “If you must know, I’m led to believe humans are prone to suffering an affliction known as ‘hurt feelings.’” There. That phrased the answer Julian sought in appropriately adversarial terms so as not to ruin the mood. 

“Worried I can’t handle you, Garak?” Julian leaned forward and lowered his voice as he murmured into Garak’s ear. “I thought I’d proved otherwise, but I’m up for further demonstration.” He didn’t manage to entirely hide his relief. His attempt was credible all the same, and the challenge in his voice was positively enthralling. Control until the next stage would be challenging. Garak wished he’d taken that step back. 

Instead he held up the measuring tape like a shield. “Far be it from me to doubt you. Now, arms up, if you please. I’m going to measure your chest.”

Julian cocked an eyebrow, but he straightened and raised his arms, and Garak passed the measuring tape around his lissom (very, compared to a Cardassian) chest. It was an action that might resemble an embrace if not for the tailoring tool in his hand. It would also normally be done with brisk efficiency, but Garak took this measurement slowly, appreciating Julian’s heat and musky, animal scent as he did. 

“Garak,” said Julian, and suddenly Garak was in his arms, pressed chest-to-chest. It was in impressively executed maneuver. Julian’s lips brushed Garak’s ear, and his breathing was heavy. It shocked like a jolt of electricity, and Garak would have jumped back if it had been physically possible. “I think you can finish measuring me later. Don’t you agree?”

Garak did not in fact agree. There was a series of steps to be followed, both in terms of seduction as well as narrative -- if they’d started the conceit that Garak was measuring Julian, they really ought to finish it before progressing to the next stage of seduction. But. Julian was incredibly enticing. His hot breath on Garak’s ear ridge was inspiring thoughts that really shouldn’t be entertained yet. And clearly  _ Julian  _ wanted to progress to the next stage. Knowing the species, and more importantly, the man, there was little doubt. Garak took a deep breath and appreciated Julian’s rich, tantalizing scent, wondering how much of it was his soon-to-be-paramour’s natural body smell and how much was one of the colognes humans insisted on using. How marvellous that he might have the opportunity to find out. Would Julian stay the night? 

_ Too soon for that thought, Elim. Far too soon. _

And yet what a very agreeable thought. It seemed Julian had a curious effect on his concentration. It wouldn’t be so terrible to try this the human way, would it?

“Hmmmm?” A soft, questioning rumble emanated from Julian’s chest.

Why not? After all, if one was to be intimate with aliens, a certain willingness to compromise was called for, and the rewards promised to be very worthwhile indeed.

“I suppose the measurements can wait,” Garak said, dropping the measuring tape to the floor. 

  
  



	5. Epilogue

Julian could hardly believe that after nearly four years, here he was, laid out on his back, completely naked, sweating from the heat and the recent exertions, in Garak’s bed. Some things were worth waiting for, and while Julian wasn’t a man renowned for his patience, he thought this was one of them. It had been a  _ very  _ enjoyable evening. One of the best he’d had in ages, actually. Garak’s keen observational skills had uses of which Julian had never dared dream. 

He stretched, partly because it felt good physically and partly to watch Garak appreciate the motion. Not to compare lovers, but never had Julian been eyed with such blatant admiration for so long. It only seemed right to offer up something worth watching. 

“All this time I thought you gave out coupons to everyone,” he said. He really owed Miles and Keiko for cluing him in here. How much longer might it have taken him to figure out that Garak wanted this as much as he did? Too long, certainly. 

“It did take you quite a while to catch on.” Garak, also naked and lying on his side partly under the blanket, mussed head propped on one arm, had been undisguisedly raking his eyes down Julian’s body. He seemed more amused about the coupon business than anything. 

“I didn’t so much catch on as Keiko told me,” Julian admitted.

Garak tutted. “We must work on your understanding of commerce. Coupons are not typically hand-delivered over lunch.”

“Or you could just try telling the truth.” 

“Ah, but the truth was in the lies all along, my dear.” Garak tapped his hip. “The problem was that you didn’t think to look for it.”

Embarrassingly, Garak was mostly right, but in his own defense Julian felt the need to clarify. “I did know all the coupons you gave me meant you cared. I just got the kind of caring wrong.” Rather spectacularly wrong, as it turned out, but in this case that was a very good thing. 

“I believe the idiom ‘better late than never’ is applicable.”

“Yes,” agreed Julian, noting for possible future use this rare occasion where Garak agreed with a human adage. “It is. Now, I’m curious. Is taking forever to get naked common for Cardassians?” 

Personally, he saw no need for two people who’d been lusting after each other for years (it had been years for both of them, right?) to drag the matter out any longer. Garak had seemed in no hurry, in fact had drawn back a few times, and Julian therefore wanted to know if it was a cultural thing or a Garak thing. 

“Is haste common for humans?” countered Garak, avoiding giving a straight answer as usual. 

“Depends on the human.”

“Let me guess, you are a proponent of rushing. Really, my dear, you must learn to slow down sometimes and savour experiences.” This chiding was delivered with an affectionate tracing of two fingers down his neck. The lack of ridges seemed to fascinate Garak, so Julian’s fears about his own body being unornamented and dull in comparison were clearly unfounded. Neither did the new use of ‘my dear’ without his title go unnoticed, and it caused Julian to grin. 

“I might be won over, if someone is determined enough to make the point,” he said. “It will probably take a while, though.”

“Indeed. I fear you’re very set in your ways.” Garak flapped the blanket open. “It would have been better if we’d started this cultural exchange years ago.”

“True.” Julian wiggled under and slotted his arms and legs around Garak’s solid body, pressing himself against it so as to fully feel the patterns and ridges of his scales. “I believe the idiom ‘make up for lost time’ is applicable.”

“How careless of humans to lose time so frequently that they have an idiom.” Garak’s arms, firm and reassuring, curled around Julian to pull him in closer. The tenderness of the action belied his chiding words. 

“Is that little jibe your way of initiating a second round, or can you just not help yourself?” 

“Why can’t both be true? Such a strict adherence to dichotomy is unhelpful.” The gleam in Garak’s eye, combined with the way his hand was creeping down to Julian’s arse, strongly pointed towards round two being imminent. Evidently the Cardassian refractory period was quite short. And that was more than fine with Julian.

* * *

The padd light was too low to disturb most humans, though perfectly readable for a Cardassian. Nonetheless, Garak shifted a little so that there was no chance his bed mate would be able to see the screen should he wake up. 

His bed mate. Julian had indeed stayed the night, after proclaiming Garak had exhausted him to the point that expecting him to walk across the station to his own quarters would be rude. Garak allowed himself a satisfied smile. He didn’t extend it to a contented sigh, though he certainly could have if he wasn’t mindful of waking the man breathing softly next to him, lying on his front, arms and legs splayed out over the bedclothes. The warmth of his body heat, an additional benefit of this particular bed mate, radiated from Julian’s beautiful naked form. On the floor, rumpled carelessly into a ball, was the as-yet-unaltered Starfleet jumpsuit. The undershirt was still half clinging to the back of the sofa where Julian had tossed it, looking as if it had been lounging there all night. And who even knew where Julian’s briefs were? Though to be fair, Garak had been the last one to handle those. They couldn’t have gone far. In any case, all of Garak’s clothes were, if not folded, at least neatly placed on a chair, while Julian still was apparently criminally unconcerned about his wardrobe. 

But Garak was prepared to forgive this fault, given that he was surely now in a position to insist on proper tailoring at least. And Julian had so much else to offer: intelligent conversation, caring concern, passion for so many other things. And he apparently found Garak’s quarters too hot to sleep in clothed, so it looked like Garak would generally have less call to be offended by his sartorial choices in future. 

“Mmmm, Garak, what are you doing?” came a throaty voice from the pillow. So Julian was a light sleeper. Noted. 

“I apologise for waking you, my dear. I just remembered something I had to complete for a customer.” Garak caressed his lovely ridgeless jaw, expecting it to be smooth as before and finding it instead rough with the beginnings of the hairy bush that some humans produced on their faces. So it grew that fast, did it? How delightful to be in a position to learn this first-hand. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Okay,” Julian murmured. He flopped onto his side and pressed his warm back into Garak’s thigh. 

Oh, he was simply too inviting. Reluctantly, Garak turned his attention back to the design he’d been mulling over on the padd. It was a coupon, much like the ones he had created for the doctor, but with ‘O’BRIEN FAMILY’ in bold red script across the top. Below, ‘LIFETIME DISCOUNT’, and below that ‘the above named may present this coupon at any time for _____% off any alterations or repairs at Garak’s Clothiers, 02-485, Promenade, Deep Space 9, Bajor System, Bajor Sector’. 

“Come here, Garak,” said Julian, without opening his eyes. “It’s too early to be working.”

They did look to need the rest, if Julian was so determined to make up for lost time. While Garak would never say their years of acquaintance and friendship were wasted, he nevertheless had no objection to Julian’s plan. Spending more time together in any capacity would be a delight; having this captivating man in his bed on a regular basis seemed nearly too good to be true. Except, somehow, it was indeed Garak’s new reality. 

That decided it. How much longer did he really need to dither on this? He owed the O’Briens immense gratitude, and what better way could a simple tailor show it? With a couple of taps, the coupon was ready, ‘50%’ fanfaring in gold across the center. Another tap and the coupon was on its way for its worthy recipients to discover later that morning. Satisfied, and suddenly tired, Garak set the padd on the bedside table and, after some brief mutual fumbling with arms and heads and pillows, gathered his doctor to his chest for another hour or two of sleep. 

Tomorrow promised to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments on this fic! We hope you enjoyed the fluffy conclusion. 
> 
> On the subject of clothes, AuroraNova would also like to call your attention to her [Garak Costume Guide](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Pa0Beyhcpof-3RMWoD0-RiO_xW7VWdpe/view), available as a PDF download. Which outfit did Garak wear in the most episodes? When was the first time we saw it? All answers are handily compiled in the guide.

**Author's Note:**

> This is our first collaboration together, and we had a great time doing it! We much appreciate your comments and kudos to let us know what you think of our humble fic. In fact, we offer 30% off the next chapter for anyone who comments! 
> 
> Concepta would like to remind people who love language and Star Trek that the [Babel Trek Open Project](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BabelTrek) is open for submissions! If you have an idea that involves Star Trek (any Star Trek) without the magic of the Universal Translator, why not get creating and submit it to the collection?


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